Lost Love Letters
by Tabii
Summary: For one reason or another, these letters were never sent. A glimpse into the painful pasts of multiple nations. Chapter 4: It's WW1, and Arthur figures it's high time to apologize for the past. Rating may go up. Please read and review. Multiple pairings.
1. Dear Francis

Dear Francis,

I am still not over you. Being over you would mean never thinking about you again, but I do. Every day. I think about your warm skin, blessed by the sun more often than my own. I think about your beautiful blond hair, and the way you used to let me run my fingers through it. It was so very soft.

I think about your eyes. I wonder, have they ever shown love, _real love_, for anyone? I thought they did, once, but I don't think they do anymore. Not for me, not for Alfred, not for Arthur, and not even for yourself.

I think about the sweet things you used to tell me, all the compliments and the promises. They were just a façade, weren't they? Things to make me fall so _blindly in love_ with you that I'd never see or suspect you fooling around with Alfred and Arthur and everyone else. I suppose it's not in a nation's nature to be monogamous, but did you really have to hide it from me? If you loved me…_really_ loved me like you said you did, you could have _asked._ You know very well that I would do almost anything to make you happy. I'm sure you've exploited that on many an occasion.

I have kept your language, instead of just reverting to Arthur's. True, it's less of _your_ language now, and more of my own, but I am sure, were we speaking, that we would be able to understand each other with little trouble. I keep the language solely for you. I'm sure it would please you to read that.

I am going to burn this now. I feel a twinge of regret for doing so, but not enough to stop myself. I'm simply not as aggressive as Alfred. But you know that, don't you? It must be a relief to not have to constantly be a gentle and demure lover.

I really loved you, Francis, and I still do. I always have and always will.

Isn't that sad?

-Mattieu

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AN: Poor Mattie. Next up is Francis' letter. Please review?


	2. Cher Mattieu

Cher Mattieu,

I love you. I really, truly love you. I know do not believe me. I see your beautiful blue eyes screaming abuse at me whenever you look in my direction. But you never vocalize your anger, do you? And for that, I am both very glad and utterly shamed. So I ignore you, like all those other idiots.

Perhaps you have a reason to hate me so. After all, it was I who gave you over to Arthur. ("Sold" an angry part of me whispers, most often at night when my thoughts stray to those days and how you adored me so.) I know that hurt, mon cher. But…when your boss says 'jump' there is no way you can defy them. It was strictly a business matter. Had I any say, I would have kept you.

I see the old hurt in your eyes when I pursue a new lover. It sickens me to say this, but even though I love you so dearly, I cannot stop myself. It is just the way I am, just as Arthur is snappish, or Ludwig is serious, or Ivan is a cruel drunkard.

Know, mon cher garcon, that you take precedence in my heart. Know that I can tell the difference between you and your idiot brother. Know that I do so love that you have kept my language, like a treasured keepsake.

Know that I will never send this letter for fear that you will hate me more.

All my love,

Francis.

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AN: And there's Francis' letter. Next up is Alfred, then Arthur and from there I'm stumped. So...ideas? Anyone?


	3. Arthur

Arthur.

It's stupid. Even in a letter that I probably won't ever send, I can't bring myself to call you 'Dear'. Just in case I do send this.

I just wanted to say that it's…it's alright for you to worry. Deep down, I don't actually mind. I…kind of miss the way you used to worry about me, when I was sick, or hurt, or something. That doesn't mean I'll _**ever**_ go back to being a colony, though. _**Never**_. Especially not one who you just _**use**_.

I know…the way you feel about me. Have, in fact, known for sometime. Like, before the revolution. And that made it harder…and all the more necessary. I only wanted us to stand on equal ground, for once.

And now I'm fighting this stupid war. I'm fighting myself. It hurts and I want you to be here to hold me and tell me how to get through this, because I'm really worried that the other me, the one in gray, will win and that whole _'All men created equal'_ thing won't mean shit and then I'll have hurt you for nothing.

I get nightmares when it rains, still. They're even worse now, with the non-stop sounds of cannon and gunfire and the smell of blood everywhere, and I keep seeing you behind my eyes, laying face-down in the mud and you're—

I had to stop for a few minutes, because I couldn't bear to write down that one part of my reoccurring nightmare. It hurts so badly. I'm NOT crying. It's just hot here, and the sweat from my forehead is dripping into my eyes. I am NOT crying fir you. I am NOT crying because I'm in constant pain these days…

I am not crying because I ruined things between us so thoroughly that I will never be able to act on my feelings for you, even though to do so would be wrong anyways.

Fuck it. I'm going to send this letter. Things are already—

_My Dear Arthur,_

_You'll have to forgive the abrupt change of handwriting. This is Alan. The 'Other Alfred', so to speak._

_I'm afraid I cannot let Alfred send this letter. Because a relationship between the two of you would mean an alliance- one that I cannot afford._

_Sincerely,_

_Alan._

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AN:Civil War! Alfred is fun to write...I feel so mean now..._  
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	4. My Dear American Boy

My Dear American Boy,

This will be this first time we've fought on the same side of a war since…that mess with Francis and your natives, isn't it? Although…this makes all that seem like less of a war and more of a skirmish. You were so young and eager then. I still see that in you, sometimes, despite the mud and the disease and the fighting.

I loved you then, and I love you now. Please forgive an old man and his perversions. You weren't that young…but you were my charge. I beg your forgiveness again. I never once betrayed your trust in that way, though, did I? I am not…like others I could name.

You are a man, now. A young man, but a man still. You stand taller than me, and your shoulders are wider. There is something in your eyes now when you look at me, so different from the blind admiration you once had for me, and it frightens me simply because I do not know what it is. When did that happen, I wonder?

Anyways, the true point of this letter is to apologize. To apologize for everything you blame me for, for I fear that a great many of your accusations have a solid basis in reality and if I don't tell you know, I do not know when or if I will ever have the time or ner—

_(The rest of the letter is missing. The edges are torn, singed, and blood-stained.)_

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AN: Aw, poor Iggy. I totally have a theme of why the different characters can't send their letters. Cookies to anyone who gets it! Next up is Romano and Antonio, then Feliciano and Ludwig. Then...IDK, my BFF Hungary? And Prussia?_  
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